


Deadlines and Commitments

by space_invader



Category: The Usual Suspects (1995)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, Possible One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 08:09:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15681432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_invader/pseuds/space_invader
Summary: -"McManus never expected either of them to live particularly long lives, given their line of work he hadn’t really thought they’d make it this far."McManus's thoughts the night they find Fenster's body.





	Deadlines and Commitments

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this two years ago and figured posting would give me motivation to finish some wip stories.

The night they found Fenster lying in the sand, bloodied and wet, McManus didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. The still fresh image of his friend’s lifeless body flashing behind his eyelids anytime he dared to close his eyes.

  
McManus never expected either of them to live particularly long lives, given their line of work he hadn’t really thought they’d make it this far. But even with the continuous internal countdown to their demise the real possibility of an actual end to their partnership never felt palpable. Though, there he was, on some beach in the middle of the night kneeling over the body of the one person who understood him better than anyone.

  
In his head he can’t leave that beach, the sand, and the blood drying under his fingernails- but in the present he is sitting on the corner of a hotel bed, a half empty and now flat beer bottle rested loosely in his hand threatening to fall onto the already dingy carpeting. He stares up at the popcorned ceiling of his room conjuring up images from the tacky design in the hopes that it would lull him into a dreamless sleep. No rest for the wicked, as they say, each new attempt of sleep was plagued with images of Fenster, the way his body lied there- positioned in a cruel mockery of slumber. Not all attempts of sleep were accompanied by such torturous images, occasionally memories from earlier days would dance alongside those morbid illustration. For McManus these were the hardest to deal with, the memories of better times and jobs gone right, they only made him hurt so much more for all he lost.

  
-

  
The night prior to Fenster’s death McManus had considered running too; Fenster suggested, no begged, that the two of them just cut their losses and leave. He said Keyser Soze was too much of a “big fucking deal” and they should just run (to avoid any danger falling upon them...the conversation seems almost laughable now) It was greed them kept him there, ninety one million dollars- split between the two of them if they played their cards right- was all it took. That was, in McManus’s eyes, the amount he said his friendship and partnership was worth. Ninety one million dollars is what it took for him to ignore the bruising grip of Fenster’s hand on his arm or how Fenster’s, who rarely shied away from danger of any sort, eyes were wide with fear and his lips trembled with anxiety.  
McManus tried what he could to quell the fears, he reminded the other man of all the money they could make (“Fuck the money! We’re all dead anyways.”) and how just getting this job would change their lives forever, they would be legends. He should have listened, at least that way they’d both be dead and the awful sting of loss can’t hurt him.

  
No stranger to loss, McManus had seen people he’s known for nearly his whole life, given life sentences or tragically killed- he wasn’t even out of middle school when he saw his own father die. But Fenster’s death was different for him, he felt guilty, accountable, responsible, all the repetitive synonyms that still couldn’t fully capture the weight of his emotion. There wasn’t an overbearing wave of apathy that threatens to crush him under its overwhelming numbness that presented itself during all his other times of distress. Instead he is made to feel all the raw emotions that he wants to burry. Burry them them with Fenster in that pathetically shallow grave, that way he doesn't have to think… or hurt.

  
Tears burn in his eyes and he attempts to will them away- knowing that if Fenster were there he wouldn’t let him live down such a “pussy” thing. It's a thought that brings a weak, watery, sort of beginning of a smile to his lips but it dies as quickly as it began.

  
He shouldn’t have even brought up the job. He should have just listened to Keaton and kept his mouth shut, keep to himself; it was a simple enough job him and Fenster didn’t need three other people but the idea of getting all those thieves together in a big “Fuck You” to the NYPD seemed too much of a golden opportunity. But apparently that golden opportunity turned out to be fool’s gold. How could one job, one straightforward job turn into this?

  
Everything is spinning around his mind too fast, as if his thoughts are strapped to one of those hellish carnival rides. Guilt, self-hatred, and despair all seated together. For a split second he can swear he is on beach with Fenster’s body, before the blood and before the elements left him dam and coated in sand. The beach, Fenster’s body, the sand, the blood. McManus’s mouth fills with copper tasting saliva. His breathing feels stilted, not as if there is a weight on his chest or neck but as if there simply isn’t enough breathable air in the small hotel room. His vision blurs and he blinks hard to offset the impairment to his sight- each blink becomes a snapshot image of the beach. That goddamn beach. McManus's hands shake, what was once a slight tremble has now become violent shudders- the beer bottle falls from his hands landing on the carpet with a dull thud that goes unnoticed for the moment, its lukewarm contents splash out onto the carpet and onto McManus’s bear feet. The sensation reminds him of warm water hitting your toes as you stand along the water’s edge. A usually beautiful visual, it agonized him. All just a sick parody of where he lost the person who mattered the most to him.

  
Tears flow freely now, too far gone to berate himself for his being weak. (Later when he was feeling particularly vulnerable and too drunk to censor his feelings, Verbal will tell him that there is no weakness in crying. But for now in the present he just feels so helplessly weak) Seawater like tears burn his eyes as they trek down his face. The blurry quality of his vision has not subsided and with every stressed and forced breath he feels as though the walls of his vision are closing around him. The blackness creeping into his vision doesn’t phase him as he is far too occupied with constant repetitive thoughts that won't leave him be, it doesn’t slow in its mission to absorbing all his vision. His lungs hurt as he continues to hyperventilate for more air and his mind feels on the brink of collapse.

  
And mercifully, it stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Killers song by the same name.


End file.
